"But how then—what do you mean?"
"Well—one can feel such poetry in every blink of sunshine even in this West Centre, and every breath of wind, and every stray recollection of some great book that one has read, when we were young, you know. That poetry never is brought to the awful test of being written down and read out. I do so feel for Mr. Blanchet; I suppose his poems seemed glorious before they were written out."
"But I think they seem glorious to him even still."
"They do—and to Mary. Mr. Heron, tell me honestly and without affectation—are you really a judge of poetry?"
"Not I," said Heron. "I adore a few old poets and one or two new ones, but I couldn't tell why—and those that I admire everybody else admires too, so that I can't pretend to myself that I have any original judgment. My opinion, Miss Grey, isn't worth a rush."
"I am very glad to hear it—very. Neither is mine. So you see we may be both of us quite mistaken about Mr. Blanchet's poems."
"Of course we may—I dare say we are; in fact I am quite sure we are," said Heron, growing enthusiastic.
"Anyhow it is possible. Now I have been thinking——"
"Yes, you have been thinking?"
"I don't know whether I am only going to prove myself a busybody; but I am so fond of Mary Blanchet."